A Royal Pain (16 page)

“So where do we go today?” Hanni asked. “More shopping? I like London shops. Or lunch at the Savoy? Your friend Belinda said you met Gussie and Lunghi at lunch at the Savoy. I would like a place where I get good food and meet guys.”

I began to think that Granddad was right. The princess was rapidly turning into more than I could handle. The small stipend from Binky certainly wouldn’t cover outings like lunch at the Savoy and I couldn’t risk letting Hanni loose in any more shops.

“You agreed to have lunch with Baroness Rottenmeister at the Park Lane house,” I reminded her. “And this morning I think we should take in some British culture,” I said. “I am supposed to be educating you. I’m taking you to the British Museum.”

“Museum? But museums are full of old stuff. We have crummy old stuff in Germany. I like modern things.”

“You may be a future queen,” I said. “You need to know your history. British Museum and no arguing.”

“Okay,” Hanni said with a sigh.

I went upstairs to have my bath and get dressed. Mildred insisted on my wearing decent clothes, and a strand of pearls.

“I’m only going to a museum, Mildred,” I said.

“It doesn’t matter, my lady. You are a representative of your family and your class every time you set foot outside your front door. My previous ladies never went out unless they looked like aristocrats. The ordinary public expects it.”

I sighed and let her attempt to brush my hair into fashionable waves. “And I’m sure you haven’t forgotten, my lady, but I did request Thursday afternoons off.”

“Oh, absolutely,” I said with relief. “Go and enjoy yourself.”

“I will indeed, my lady. I often take in a matinee of a show.”

Feeling like a dowdy forty-year-old in my suit and pearls, I came out of my room and tapped on Hanni’s door. “Ready to go?” I asked, pushing the door open.

Irmgardt looked up at me with her usual sullen blank expression. She was in the process of hanging up the princess’s ball gown.

“Is the princess ready to go out?” I asked. “Princess? Downstairs?” I gestured.

She nodded.
“Ja.”

Poor Hanni, I thought. I bet she didn’t choose such a maid. Irmgardt was obviously an old family retainer who had been sent to keep an eye on Hanni by the palace. And she had given her little charge a good talking to the night before. I wondered if it would have any effect.

As I turned to leave, I glanced at the bedside table. There were some letters on it, including the strange sheet of paper with
C. P.
printed on it. And now somebody had slashed an angry red cross through the initials.

I stood staring at it. The angry red slash was quite out of character for Hanni. And I knew nobody called C.P. And anyway, her private mail was none of my business. I closed the door behind me and went downstairs.

Hanni enjoyed riding on the top of a bus down Oxford Street. It was a lovely summery day, with a warm breeze in our faces, and the crowds below us looked happy and festive.

“Selfridges,” Hanni exclaimed. “What is this?”

“Another department store, like Harrods.”

“When can we go there?”

“One day, maybe,” I said, and decided that I should write to the queen to find out how long I was to be saddled with the princess. It was about time someone else took over the responsibility.

I was glad when we reached the more sedate area of Bloomsbury and I led Hanni up the steps of the British Museum. She clearly wasn’t interested in the Egyptian mummies or the Roman statues and wandered around mechanically with a bored expression on her face. I was tempted to give in and take her somewhere more fun like the zoo or a boat on the Serpentine.

We reached the Roman jewelry. “Look, Hanni,” I said. “This should be more in your line. These fabulous emeralds.”

I looked up from the glass case and she had gone.

The little minx, I thought. She’s given me the slip. I had to catch her before it was too late. I hurried through one gallery after another, but the museum was a huge, rambling place. There were groups of schoolchildren to negotiate on the stairs, so many places she could hide, and I realized that my chances of finding her were slim.

“So she’s run off,” I told myself. She’s eighteen years old and it’s broad daylight. Why should I be so worried? The worst she’ll do is to go shopping on Oxford Street. Yes, and try to shoplift again, and get arrested, I thought. And then what would the queen say?

Drat Hanni, I muttered, and was stomping down the main staircase when I saw her coming up toward me.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “I thought you went without me.”

“No, we just mislaid each other,” I replied, feeling guilty about my uncharitable thoughts. “But all is well. We’ve found each other.”

“You’re right. All is well,” she said. “All is very well.” She was glowing with excitement. “Something really good just happened. I met the guy from the party last night. Isn’t that great?”

“Which guy?” I asked.

“You know, the serious one we met in the park. Sidney. He was here looking for an old book. He told me he works in a bookshop, you know. That is interesting, no?”

I should not have thought of Hanni as the bookshop type—nor the Sidney type. My first thought was that anyone working in a bookshop could not afford to feed and entertain Hanni. But I rapidly came to the conclusion that a bookshop was definitely healthier than parties and cocktails, not to mention cocaine. And he wasn’t Darcy.

“Yes, that is interesting,” I said. “Where is this bookshop?”

“He said it is in the old part of the city. It’s an old, old bookshop. Sidney said the famous writer Charles Dickens used to visit it often. He has invited me to visit it too. He said it has much history. We can go,
ja
?”

“I don’t see why not. It’s definitely educational.”

“Good, then we go tomorrow.” Hanni nodded firmly. “Today is no use because Sidney will be here, studying boring old books all day.”

“And you are expected at lunch with the baroness,” I added.

She rolled her eyes. “Pain in neck,” she said. Then her expression softened. “Sidney is nice boy, don’t you think?”

“A little too serious for you, I’m afraid,” I admitted.

“He is a communist,” she said. “I never met a communist before. I thought they were all wild and fierce like in Russia, but he seems gentle.”

“I’m sure he’s a good person, and he is definitely idealistic. He likes the ideal of a communist society, but it would never work in reality.”

“Why not?” She turned those innocent blue eyes on me.

“Because people are people. They are not willing to share equally. They always try to grab what they can. And they need to be led by those born to rule.”

“I do not agree with this,” she said. “Why should my father be a king, just because he was born to be king?”

“I suppose it does help if one is brought up to rule.”

“Sidney is from lower classes, but he would make a good leader,” she said.

I thought how easily she was swayed by a pair of earnest gray eyes. If she met a handsome fascist tomorrow, she’d be in favor of whatever it was he believed.

Hanni chatted excitedly all the way back to Park Lane. I found myself half hoping, half dreading that Prince Siegfried would be present at lunch and that Hanni would fall for him. At least he was suitable. Then I rationalized that she was acting like any typical eighteen-year-old straight from a girls’ establishment. She wanted affirmation that she was attractive to young men—and at this moment it didn’t matter if they were suitable young men or not.

Siegfried was not at lunch. The meal seemed to go on forever, with course after heavy course—the dowager countess’s German cook producing dumplings and cream with everything. The baroness smacked her lips and wolfed down everything she was offered. I kept my head down, tried to say as little as possible and prayed with every moment that the dowager countess wouldn’t suddenly realize she had seen me sweeping her floors.

I was glad when it was over.

“Now can we visit sexy guys?” Hanni asked. “We go and say hi to Darcy or to Gussie and Lunghi?”

“I hardly think the latter is appropriate,” I said without thinking.

“Why?” Hanni turned innocent blue eyes on me.

“Because, er”—I remembered I hadn’t told her the truth about what happened the night before—“one of the guests was taken ill and died.” I hoped this half truth would suffice. “They are very upset about it,” I added. “They won’t want to entertain visitors.”

“Darcy then? He could take me out to dinner tonight.”

I was tempted to tell her the truth about Darcy’s financial situation but instead I said, “Hanni, you must learn that a young lady should never be forward. It is not up to you to make the first move. You have to wait for a young man to ask you out.”

“Why? This is silly,” she said. “If I want to go on date with a young man, why can’t I ask him?”

She did have a point. Maybe if I hadn’t been so reticent with Darcy he might not have drifted into the arms of whoever the girl with the long dark hair was, and he would not have been flirting with Hanni last night. I remained firm, however, and decided to distract Hanni with a visit to the theater. I picked a light musical comedy by Sigmund Romberg, called
The Student Prince.
This was probably a mistake as it was all about a prince falling in love with a simple girl. In the end he renounces her for his duty. Hanni wept all the way home. “So sad,” she kept on murmuring. “I would never give up the man I loved for my duty. Never.”

Chapter 17

When she came down on Friday morning, I had visions of a repetition of last night’s play. Hanni was clearly excited about seeing Sidney again. “I don’t care if he is only a commoner,” she kept saying. She ate sparingly at breakfast and paced until it was time to leave the house. I was still not too familiar with the geography of London and went downstairs to ask Granddad how I’d get to Wapping.

“Wapping, ducks?” he asked. “Now what would you be doing there?”

“Going to a bookshop.”

“A bookshop in Wapping?” he said.

“That’s right. It deals in old and rare books. Where is it?”

“Not the best area. Down by the river. Docklands. I wouldn’t have thought they went in for much reading there. Where is this place?”

“It’s off Wapping High Street, near a pub called the Prospect of Whitby.”

Granddad was still frowning. “I seem to remember that them communists hold meetings in a hall around there. You want to be careful, my love. I hope you’re not thinking of taking the princess to a place like that.”

“She’s the one who wants to go. She’s met a young man . . . he’s a communist and he works in this bookshop.”

Granddad made a tut-tutting noise and shook his head. “She wants watching, that one.”

“He’s perfectly civilized for a communist, Granddad. He went to Cambridge and he seems terribly nice and earnest. And it is broad daylight.”

Granddad sighed. “I suppose it is a weekday. People are working. They’re not likely to have one of their punch-ups on a Friday morning. When they have their meetings, there’s often a right brawl afterwards. The blackshirts and them go at it.”

“I’m sure we’ll be quite safe, and knowing Hanni, she’ll be bored quite quickly in a bookshop.”

“Just make sure you don’t dress too posh,” my grandfather warned, “and watch out for pickpockets and anyone who makes improper suggestions.”

I passed on his advice to Hanni and we left the house in simple cotton skirts and white blouses—two young women on an outing to the city. We rode the tube to Tower Hill Station. I pointed out the Tower of London to Hanni, but she expressed little interest in London history, and dragged me forward like an impatient dog on a leash. It was a long, complicated walk to reach Wapping High Street. Roads twisted, turned and dead-ended between tall brick warehouses and docks. Exotic smells of spices, coffee and tea competed with the less savory odor of drains and the dank smell from the river. Barrows clattered past piled high with goods. Finally we came upon the high street. The bookshop was in a small alleyway off the busy street. It was still paved with cobblestones like a scene from an old painting. To complete the picture a beggar sat on the corner, rattling a couple of pennies in a tin cup in front of him. His sign read,
Lost leg in Great War. Spare a penny.
I felt awful and rummaged in my purse for sixpence, then changed my mind and gave him a shilling.

“God bless you, miss,” he said.

There were only three shops in the alley. One was a cobbler (boots, shoes and umbrellas repaired like new!), another, halfway down on the left-hand side, was a Russian tearoom with a couple of sad-looking, down-at-heel men sitting in the window, conversing with dramatic gestures. The bookshop was at the dead end of the alley. Haslett’s Bookshop. Established 1855. Specializing in Rare Books and Socialist Literature. An interesting combination since I suspected not too many communist workers collected first editions. Now that we had reached the door, Hanni hung back shyly and let me go inside first.